November Rain
by the-science-of-corruption
Summary: It was like a November rain because John didn't understand it, but it felt so irreversibly right. John/Sherlock. Boy kissing.


_November Rain  
~28.1.13~_

* * *

The dirty, ragged walls of the alley seemed to be closing in around him as John screamed himself hoarse. He didn't know if the murderer could hear him, and frankly he didn't care. John would let his body be struck full of bullets before he allowed Sherlock to be alone with the homicidal man for a minute.

Every pore in his body quivered and shrieked in protest but he stumbled on through the labyrinths of downtown London. The gun in his waistband pressed uncomfortably against the small of his back, rubbing against his perspiration-soaked shirt.

He rounded one final corner before a tiny part of his heart permitted him the fear that Sherlock was gone.

Hands grasped John's broad and shaking shoulders, spinning him around roughly. John had one brief glance at the burning look in Sherlock's ice-blue eyes. And before John's lips could form the words, "Are you all right," Sherlock's mouth collided with them in an unrestrained, blazing embrace.

And it was like a November rain in that it was unexpected. It had seemed that their relationship, like the flow of seasons, had been moving smoothly towards a definite place. But this devastating kiss veered all things from the straight and predictable to the untamed and new. Yet it was also refreshing, and relaxing as the sound of heavenly water drumming on the rooftop. It was wild, ferocious, but with such a consistency as to make it powerfully complete and altogether stunning.

The sigh that slipped from Sherlock's throat as John relaxed into the kiss was like a distant clap of thunder, so telltale, so unimportant in that moment but potentially ruinous later. It was like a November rain because John didn't understand it, but it felt so irreversibly right.

* * *

An immeasurable amount of time later, the two men were staggering up the narrow steps of 221B Baker Street. Shedding his coat quickly, Sherlock plucked his violin from the desk and began tenderly stroking its melodious strings with his bow. Even as he fumbled with his jacket buttons, a bewildered and awestruck John could still feel the echo of his flatmate on his lips, taste him, remember how it tore him apart inside. His hands felt clumsy and useless, yanking off his jacket and folding his arms to stop their shaking, and all he could do was watch Sherlock's elegant fingers in motion.

And suddenly, as the notes from the violin rose into a shattering crescendo, the striking silhouette of Sherlock against the pearly grey sky through the window was too much for John, and in two quick strides he was tugging urgently on the taller man's upper arms.

Immediately the treasured musical possession clattered to the floor, unimportant, replaced in the arms of the world's only consulting detective by a person far more precious. John had time to murmur "God, Sherlock," before his world was wordlessly exploded by the exhilarated pulse in his flatmate's smooth lips.

The second kiss was like a November rain because it was strong and focused, driven and intense. Yet there were whispery moments as raindrops fell off the leaves of trees that the two men tasted each other gently and breathed in the other's essence like a delicious smoke. And it was terrible and frightening, full of shivers and wholeness and fingertips that trickled across naked skin. Like standing in the raging storm because John felt drenched by Sherlock, his body heavy with Sherlock surrounding him, consuming him, weighing him down, drowning him. And there was the sensation of being exposed to the elements unconditionally, but so very alone in the silent world. The thudding of rain on the sidewalk like the two hearts that raced together, leaping into this unexplored territory. All that mattered was what he held in his arms, pressed against his chest.

November rain, and the pavement was slick and slippery, but rightfully so. John's fingertips were buried in Sherlock's raven curls like they were shoved in warm pockets as the two men kissed hungrily and violently.

November rain, because it was a nod to the past for Sherlock, a gift of the present for John, and for both something familiar that initiated something new.

And it was the agonizing hesitation of Sherlock's hand on the doorknob that made everything impossible to resist and utterly unattainable.

* * *

Dark sky.

Cotton sheets.

Yet only one body wedged in between them.

The doctor woke drenched in a cold sweat, his damp chest heaving, his chapped lips tingling as if they were on fire, every part of him aching.

Slowly, resolutely, he sat up alone in bed and slipped his head into his shaking hands.

And the tears that melted down his cheeks were like a November rain in that they were unwelcome, cold, and cruel, a miserable reminder of the past lined with the suffering of the present. A November rain that spoke of explosive lies and a whispered goodbye that played over and over and over in the head. They did not halt the bitter coldness of his current situation, or seek to alleviate it, but each drop stabbed him thoroughly in the heart.

There had been no embrace in the darkened alley, no violin song interrupted by a distressed, disorientated John. The only heart that beat in the flat was that of a broken soldier, a lonely doctor, a tormented man. The windows around him that stared at him, mirroring him in their emptiness, were soaked in the November rain, but nothing could wash away all the acrimonious and stinging raw feelings that clung to the edges of his hollow being.

* * *

_Author's Notes..._

Oh, look. Angst.

I'm not going to say this is my first Sherlock fic, because I have seriously written approximately fifty of them since I first saw the series as the end of last summer. John/Sherlock is my first slash pairing, I shall admit. I just love them. They are so cute. And so perfect. And so squee. And just argh I need season three.  
This fic is one of those that I either really really like or really really hate. It's a completely different tone than my usual writing, so I wasn't sure if I would like it. But my beta, shelllessturtle, made me. She is a woman you do not argue with.

I hope you enjoyed this little creation of mine. If you would like to make me a very, very happy teenage girl, then _please leave a review_. PLEASE. I don't want to be desperate but PLEASE.  
I love you all!  
~Neenie (ll3)


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